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writtenonreceipts · 4 months ago

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Rowaelin Month Day Nine: Meet Ugly @rowaelinscourt

Month Masterlist // AO3 Link

Remember when I went to a rage room?

.*.*.*.*.

All the Rage

She comes in late one Saturday afternoon during the middle of summer and the heat has driven everyone inside for some taste of air conditioning. It’s been a miserable week, and Rowan wants to just close up early so he doesn’t have to deal with the silence. Fenrys should have been here, but the little asshat decided it was more important to call out with no other reason other than I don’t want to come in.

Rowan is going to kill him the next chance he gets.

But first there’s this customer to deal with. At first Rowan thinks she’s lost and he’s going to have to explain that her phone is perfectly capable of giving her directions and not him. He hates giving directions.

And he would have done just that if he weren’t caught up by the blonde curls that tumble over her shoulders and fire that burns in her eyes. She’s beautiful and determined and he’s certain that turning her away will get him scorched.

She’s wearing a pair of jeans that hug her lean curves and an oversized t-shirt displaying a grunge band Rowan’s never heard of. Her eyes hold no room for argument, condescension, or play of any sort.

“Can I help you?” Rowan asks, leaning across the front counter.

“I need to break something,” the woman replies.

She doesn’t look at him but examines the shop. It’s small, smaller than Rowan would like, but they’ve got four stalls for throwing hatchets and knives and two soundproof rooms for customers to use to beat out their frustrations on bottles, computer equipment, and the likes.

Everything else is decorated with black paint and frames of records, music posters, and few black and white photos of early Terrasen that Rowan had inherited from his da. It’s simple enough, but that’s what makes the shop what it is.

“Sure,” Rowan says, “bottles, computer equipment?”

“Both,” she says. She approaches the register and hands over a credit card. “I signed your waiver online.”

Rowan raises a brow, but she doesn’t seem to notice or care about how she may be coming across. Though, he’s never minded an assertive woman. So, he accepts the card and looks at the waiver that came through recently.

“Aelin?” he confirms, her name rolling easily from his tongue. It’s an old name, one he’s only seen in the history books.

“Yeah,” she confirms.

Rowan can feel her patience waning and it only spurs his interest in what she’s doing here. He confirms her card information and her license to make sure it's her and is surprised to find that she’s from way up north, nearly an hour away. He thinks better than to ask her about it so he instructs her on a few extra safety precautions. They provide their clients with gloves, goggles, and jumpsuits and as long as they wear closed toed shoes, there never has been much of an issue.

“You’re the last person I have on the books today, so take your time,” Rowan said. May as well, he’d be late cleaning up the rest of the shop anyways.

Aelin accepts all his instructions and heads back to one of the soundproof rooms. There is a distinct look of rage in her eyes (fitting for any one of his customers that wants to break things). Rowan quietly shows her where she can pick a box of bottles and a box of electronics as well as how to get her choice of music playing.

He leaves her to her own devices, only partially wondering where all that rage had come from. The other part returns to Fenrys when the younger kid asks if he can take tomorrow off too. Rowan wonders if having a staff meeting about work ethic will have any sort of effect when the music starts blaring from the room where he left Aelin.

Even with the soundproofing work they’d done on the rooms, there was still a bit of noise that happened. Not that it got too bothersome, in fact it could get pretty humorous in learning what people listened to or screamed in their sessions. It ranged from the usual rock to Adele. He always found the Adele rage roomers to be the most concerning. The rooms also had large viewing windows so if a large party came in, they could watch before switching off.

Still, Rowan can’t help but look up and smirk to himself when the opening notes of “Master of Puppets” began beating through the walls.

…

Aelin has never considered herself an angry person. She’s never had reason to hate anyone with too much of a burning passion or talk negatively about them. She’s always been a live and let live, a forgive and forget kind of a person.

Until her dad died and she lost her job. Until her boyfriend left and she had to pick up the pieces of a life that she has come to realize is a bit of a joke she has no idea what to do about it.

To say the least: rage is child's play in comparison with what she’s feeling.

So she throws bottles against the wall and beats a printer until a plume of toner coats her jumpsuit. And she screams.

Metallica, AC/DC, Skillet, and artists she doesn’t know continue to beat through the speakers and she continues to scream.

It isn’t until she has a sheen of sweat on her forehead and she’s out of things to break that she pauses. Her heart thrums in her chest with a mix of exertion and energy. It’s the most alive she’s felt in months. The metal bat in her hand clatters to the ground, crashing against the broken glass laying at her feet.

She wants to do more. She wants to destroy everything she can get her hands on. But not tonight.

Aelin leaves the bat where it lands and stalks back to the exit of the small room. Overall, she’s rather pleased with the destruction she weaved. Certainly, she got her money’s worth with the hour spent and attention she gave the phone. She’d beaten that thing to a pulp. All she wanted was to see the guts and innards spilled out.

At her job—the phone had been the bane of her existence and seeing its destruction was more therapeutic than actual therapy.

Once out of the room, she strips out of the jumpsuit and gloves, settling the goggles and earmuffs in their respective bins. Sweat still clings to her skin and she can feel bits of hair sticking to her neck. But it’s a good feeling, the sense of accomplishment that comes after physical labor. Rolling her shoulders, she glances back at the man who’d checked her in.

When she’d first entered the shop, she’d been so intent on getting into the room and breaking things that she hadn’t really paid him enough attention. Sure, she’d noticed he was attractive in the rugged, tortured soul sort of way but she hadn’t taken the time to really look at him. Like she does now. He’s built like a brick wall, well over six feet tall with broad shoulders and muscles barely restrained in his black t-shirt. His silver hair is pulled back in a half knot, leaving the rest to fall to his shoulders. The styling offers a view of his chiseled jaw and sharp nose. His golden-brown skin gleams in the overhead lights.

He looks up as though sensing her. Just like when she first came in, he doesn’t smile.

“Finished up?”

“Yes,” she says. “Is there anything else you need from me?”

“No—” he begins, then stop when he glances up at her. “You’re bleeding.”

Aelin freezes, frowning as his words register. “Bleeding?”

She glances down. Her jeans and t-shirt look fine, the bare skin of her arms normal, just the nearly invisible scars at her wrists, her forearms.

The man moves from around the desk at a quick pace, scowl cutting across his handsome features. The look in his eyes shocks her enough that Aelin steps back. Either not noticing or not caring about her reaction, the man continues towards her. He reaches out a hand and snags her chin before she can pull away.

“What are you doing?” she demands. Being manhandled was not on her list of things to have happen to her today. Been there, done that.

“Cut,” the man says succinctly.

Aelin stares up at him, because of course he has to be a giant. “So?”

Later, she will berate herself for such a stupid response. For now, all she is concerned about is how close he is to her and the scent of pine that wafts off his skin. He also has a scar along his jaw, small but there. Which she has no business noticing.

“A piece of glass must have flown back and nicked you,” the man says to her oh so pithy retort. He raises an eyebrow and forest green eyes bare into her.

It is only then that Aelin feels the sting on her cheek. Her sweat has finally rolled down into the wound. She inhales sharply before trying to pull away. The grip on her chin remains too strong.

“I’ll fix it up myself,” she says. “No big deal.”

She’d signed a waiver about injury anyways. And if this is just a little cut, she really doesn’t care. She doubts it will leave much of a mark after it heals anyways. It’s not like she doesn’t have any other scars.

“I’ve got a kit,” the man replies in a way that tells her no amount of arguing will be tolerated. It makes her hackles rise and her scowl deepen. She doesn’t care much to be bossed around like this.

“And I said I’m fine,” Aelin insists. She manages to pull away from him, her skin still burning for where he’d touched her. It’s not that he hurt her, rather the way it lingers. The feel of his skin on hers and the brush of calluses from his fingers.

He jerks his chin toward a stool sitting by the register. “Just sit down.”

“I signed a waiver,” Aelin reminds him.

A glare in return.

Damn he really needs to work on his customer rapport.

“I’m leaving you a mean review on Yelp.”

“I’m terrified.” A deadpan response.

She thinks briefly about making a break for the door. Having someone else touching her…being so close…well it makes her a little jumpy and desperate to leave. But she saw how quickly he crossed the room once he noticed the blood. Reluctantly, Aelin shuffles to the stool and huffs as she takes a seat.

The man goes around behind the register to grab said first aid kit. What she is not expecting is a giant canvas duffle to slam onto the desk beside her. The camo design is scuffed and beat to hell and back, duct tape slapped on in a few places, and faded Sharpie marks.

“It’s a scratch, not a gushing wound,” she says. Why she bothers, she doesn’t know, her comment is ignored as the man unzips the bag and grabs a pack of gauze, disinfectant, and band-aids. “Seriously.”

“My shop, my rules,” is his only reply.

Aelin sighs again and crosses her arms in front of her. “Fine. What’s your name then? Or can I keep referring to you as Asshole?”

Not even a twitch in his lips. “Rowan.”

Not the name she would have first associated with him, but Aelin’s not the best at naming things. She named her dog Fleetfoot for crying out loud. Really, what kind of a name is that?

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” she asks as he takes her chin again to tilt her face up.

“Sure,” he says, far too casually.

Aelin wonders for a brief moment if she is possibly running the risk of being murdered. Or maybe some sort of smuggling ring? Rowan has enough dark surliness roiling around him that really, she won’t be surprised if the worst happens.

She shifts on the stool. Well, she does take self-defense classes. And she knows where to find a metal bat to hit someone with.

“Relax,” Rowan says, as if sensing her discomfort. “I was a paramedic.”

“And now you run a store where people beat the shit out of things,” she says, “interesting.”

Rowan douses the gauze with disinfectant. “This’ll sting.”

That’s all the warning he gives before pressing the gauze to her cheek. Aelin hisses out a curse, trying her best to sit still. She can deal with pain. She knows pain. And this is hardly more than a mosquito bite. One deep, slow breath later and she is fine.

“Good job,” Rowan murmurs. He sets the gauze aside, leaning in to examine the spot on her cheek. His fingers have gone soft as he gently probes the skin around the injury.

Aelin feels her heartrate ratchet up and she has to fight to keep a blush from rising on her cheeks. There is no reason for her to be reacting the way she is. No reason to be focused on the way his fingers are light as air against her skin. Nor how close he is. Apparently, assholes can still be attentive to the injured.

“It’s not too deep, but I wouldn’t argue against a stitch or two, though, no use getting a scar.”

“Just a butterfly band-aid of steri-strip is fine,” Aelin tells him. “No use going to the hospital for this.”

She’s had enough hospital visits to last a life-time.

Rowan fixes her with another frown and Aelin drops her gaze from his. She doesn’t owe him an explanation, no matter if he is helping her.

“It doesn’t even hurt that much,” she adds.

Her mutters under his breath and the only thing Aelin is somewhat sure he said is “damn woman.” She can at least pride herself that she’s giving him a hard time.

“What’d you even do in there?” he asks, surprising her. She really thought he was only capable of giving one or two syllable responses. “Haven’t had an injury in six months.”

“Six months?” she frowns. “That’s how long you’ve been open.”

“Yeah, well opening night a bachelor party reserved the whole place with a bunch of idiots that didn’t know how to listen,” Rowan says. He shakes his head and grabs a small tube of ointment for his bag-o-tricks. “And then they were drinking and we don’t have a test for that.”

Aelin read something like that in their waiver, something along the lines of an honor policy mixed with they didn’t have that proper authority to ban, even on suspicion of drinking. Which seemed like a stupid rule, but she wouldn’t bring that up.

“The groom didn’t release his ax properly,” Rowan continues, “his wedding night could have been a disaster.”

Aelin lets out a startled chuckle. Rowan too finally releases a smile of his own. Though, when she blinks, it disappears.

“We’ve been a bit more careful about how we take reservations,” he says. As he dabs some of the ointment onto her cheek, they fall into silence. “This’ll help with infection and keep it clean. But you should go—”

“No.” Aelin reaches for the bandage he set out; the butterfly strip doesn’t require too much thinking. “This is plenty.”

Rowan plucks the bandage from her fingers. “Stubborn. That why you had to smash things to pieces? Work out some anger?”

She doesn’t feel the need to reply to that, so she only adjusts her face up for him to apply the adhesive. He may not have smiled again, but his eyes do have a bit of a gleam in them.

“I’m not the one who opened the shop, seems to me you’ve got more anger bottled up than me,” she says. Granted…it sure feels like she has enough anger boiling up within her to fuel the sun. Everyday.

Rowan flattens the bandage with his thumb. His dark gaze sweeps over her face one final time before he steps back to start collecting the trash and other discarded items.

“All good,” he says. “But—”

“Good-bye, Rowan,” Aelin interrupts as she rises from the stool. There is still a flood of endorphins running through her body over not just the rage room, but what came after. And that’s what spurs her on.

“Do I need to prepare for a negative review?” Rowan asks.

She is already at the door, ready to burst out into the early evening warmth. Aelin glances over her shoulder and offers a delicate shrug.

“We’ll see.”

#rowaelin #rowan x aelin #rowaelin month #throne of glass #poorly edited #i dont care anymore tbh

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rxttenfish · 7 months ago

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honestly as much as i joke and compare miranda to the severely abused rescue parrot or basically a pet tiger you keep in your house, theres also the counterpart to this that goes, aaravi is basically her service dog.

as in, like, it connects back to merfolk socialization and them constantly having someone who they consider basically a part of themselves always around and being dependent on having other people there to react or behave appropriately. and miranda getting denied that as instead her family lineage was supposed to act as this instead and failed her in being a good replacement in MULTIPLE ways, so now she's basically just... entirely unable to behave normally or healthily from a merfolk lens. she is aggressive and violent, she is quick to lash out, she constantly feels insecure and terrified, she doesn't even conceive of herself as a person and views herself in terms of an object that exists for other people's use of her, she is basically incapable of taking care of herself, she regularly tries to hurt and kill herself with varying degrees of intention.

and the merfolk solution would be to introduce a caretaker into this relationship dynamic, whether through grafting miranda into an existing caretaker group or by adding a caretaker into her existing deep social group. which isn't an option, because that has DEEPLY political implications and implying herself as being flawed or the crown as flawed by proxy would either get her outright killed or even further abused. it's just not an option for her and why she keeps getting worse, because there is no help that can come from within this system.

and aaravi in turn, acts as a member of that social group, who miranda can look to and depend upon. firstly, to judge appropriate emotional response, because she acts much worse on her own, and having aaravi there means when miranda starts getting upset she can look to aaravi and see how she's acting and to know if she should intensify or if she needs to go to aaravi and seek comfort. but also just in the sense that miranda's ideas of what is healthy or safe have been destroyed and she does kind of need someone there to make sure she is taking care of herself and not hurting herself at any given moment. she needs someone to make her feel secure and safe and someone who she can rely on, and that need is very key to who she is as a merfolk and the nature of the trauma in question, and aaravi does fulfill the need of a caretaker.

#all the care guide says is 'biomass'#miravi.txt #this also goes in the other direction tbh #but i always. worry that its most intense on miranda's side.#because of just how severe the damage is and how much care she needs in turn #and that does involve basically constant contact #which like.#honestly. aaravi also kinda needs? shes way more needy and emotionally starved than she would ever let on #its just again the challenge of getting someone who she can even confront that WITH #and someone who wont then feel like shes too clingy or her abandonment issues are too bad to deal with #honestly. yeah aaravi is the jealous type.#in the sense of constantly feeling insecure and terrified that theyll leave #or that they dont actually like or care for her and are using her #and this does end up helping her in that sense because there is no question that no one else occupies the same position in miranda's life #that miranda does need her and relies on her and feels safe with her #to the point where it circles back around into such utter confidence in that that she doesnt get the jealousy anymore #because the feeling of insecurity that caused it is gone now #if this makes sense

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